


Dripping

by orphan_account



Category: Pokemon, Pokemon Special
Genre: Gen, Imprisonment, Summer, Water
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-03
Updated: 2012-04-03
Packaged: 2017-11-02 23:16:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is beautiful but she just wants to disappear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dripping

**Author's Note:**

> A drabble I wrote on inspiration. Not meant to be shipping, but open for interpretation.

Drip. Drip. Drip.  
  
She stares at the ceiling. The drip, drip, drip of the walls is invisible but there’s a yearning, a yearning to discover… and to destroy.  
  
Drip.  
  
Drip.  
  
She is beautiful but she doesn’t want to be. She wants to be invisible most of the time, and yet she can light up any room with her mere presence. She cannot be invisible; she is too bold. She is the spice in your sugar, the flame on your wick, the chip in your shoulder, the thorn in your side.  
  
And you will hate her, unless she bleeds for you.  
  
Drip.  
  
Drip.  
  
Hssssss.  
  
Sizzling in the sunlight, the water evaporates as it hits pavement. It is summer. Her ceiling is a cloudless Kanto sky. And yet she sees grey. She sees ice. She sees clouds.  
  
There are memories. Memories blend with myths, and you can’t be sure whether the doubts in her eyes are fiction or fact. Perhaps a little of both. Perhaps it doesn’t matter.  
  
Drip.  
  
You take the hem of your shirt and carefully, oh so gently, wipe the moisture off her cheek. She is smiling softly, uncertain despite her confidence, and you are also uncertain. After all, the sprinkler head, dripping, dripping, could just as much be the source of it as her peerless amethyst eyes. Again, perhaps it doesn’t matter. Tears or not, there is sadness, and there is pain.  
  
Drip.  
  
You remember ice. You recall ice melting in summer, pouring down the slopes of the hills and giving way to lush landscapes and gleaming petals. You remind yourself that you could not touch the slopes or the petals, that you saw them through a concrete window in a low-lit room, barred by bars over your window.  
  
You don’t remember anything before that, but there were arms. Bad arms that squeezed and bound and threatened and destroyed. But also good arms. Two good arms that embraced and protected and defended and shielded. Arms covered in scars and sunlight. Bare arms that held you when you couldn’t sleep at night.  
  
Drip.  
  
Arms that lay limp by yours.  
  
Drip.  
  
Arms that cannot protect you now.  
  
Drip.  
  
Drip.  
  
Fingers. You find her fingers with both hands and squeeze them, just lightly. Her eyes close gently and her smile grows. You say nothing. You need not say anything. She understands.  
  
She understands.  
  
Drip.  
  
Drip.  
  
Drip.  
  
Drip.


End file.
